Ti Amo
by Amethyst DragonRider
Summary: And then, Antonio's economy went out the window, took a nose-dive, landed flat on the pavement, and promptly got run over by a truck. Spain/Romano.


Lovino never said 'I love you'.

He heard it at least three times a day when Antonio decided to be affectionate. When he was pulled into the Spaniard's arms without warning, he always heard the dreaded words pour out of his mouth in rapid, cheerful Spanish.

"_Te amo, mi amor_~!" Antonio would say with a grin, sometimes spinning him around happily, much to Lovino's distaste.

But Lovino just grunted out a 'whatever' or 'get off me, bastard!' He never returned the gesture. Never said 'I love you too' or even hugged back, and always pretended not to notice the hurt that flashed through those bright green eyes that he secretly adored, never commented on how he caught the small frown that briefly flitted across the face that should always hold a smile. He pretended, because he couldn't say what he wanted to. He could never say 'I love you.' The words never failed to die on his tongue. Even when he told himself he would admit it, the phrase never made it past his lips.

Even when Antonio was sad or injured (he kept trying to talk Antonio out of attending 'The Running of the Bulls', but to no avail), he still couldn't say it. Even when Antonio was happy and grinning down at him (almost expectantly, he noticed), all he could do was hit him and call him an idiot and a bastard, and though the Spaniard laughed, Lovino could always detect the hint of slight disappointment.

He knew that Antonio meant what he said. He knew that the Spanish nation really did love him, and if he could just return the gesture, things might be easier for the both of them.

But Lovino had always been a coward. And it was because of this that he could never bring himself to admit how he felt.

He often regretted it, felt guilty when he saw the hidden sadness and even some confusion in the bright green eyes of his secret crush. But he just couldn't say it. He kicked himself for it every night, even sometimes recited the confession to himself, but when the time came, and he opened his mouth…

…Something else always came out. Something that he never meant. Something that pained him to say. He couldn't make it stop. He couldn't ever say what he really wanted to.

And then, Antonio's economy went out the window, took a nose-dive, landed flat on the pavement, and promptly got run over by a truck. The Spanish nation was left all but chained to his bed, practically hacking his lungs up and looking generally pathetic. It almost seemed as if he were on his deathbed.

But Lovino refused to consider the possibility that that might actually be true. Every day, he brought Antonio a warm bowl of tomato soup (he only actually ate anything about half the time, but Lovino insisted nevertheless), ignoring how most of the Spaniards that weren't dying of starvation were migrating either further into Europe or over to America where they could make some money to live off of. A couple of the nations tried to help by bringing Spain supplies, but it didn't change much. In less than a decade, only half of Spain's original population was left, and every day it lessened as either the land's inhabitants died or decided to make their lives elsewhere. And as much as it pained Lovino to admit…Antonio might actually be dying because of it.

But surely, even though most of the Spaniards were leaving, Antonio would survive, right? His people were still alive…well, most of them…maybe about half…but still enough for him to live, right? And besides, Antonio had promised him once that he would never leave him. And Antonio never broke his promises.

So why was it that he spent less and less time awake, and more and more time asleep? And why was it that he ate a little less every day? Sometimes he didn't eat at all for days, giving the short-fused Italian no choice but to force-feed him.

Francis and Gilbert had shown up briefly to see their friend. Gilbert left first, after only about half an hour, saying that it was kind of awkward for him. Antonio didn't appear to mind, though something in his eyes suggested that he hadn't wanted his friend to leave. Francis left soon after that, smiling a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Even Arthur came to check up on Antonio, and though the exhausted Spaniard had been surprised, he seemed rather pleased that his old friend slash rival had come to see him. They shared a few quick words, both having known each other long enough to not need many words to convey their feelings to one another, before Arthur nodded with a sad smile and departed.

It was soon after that that Lovino realized just how bad Antonio really was. The Italian had come to check on Antonio, having cleaned the entire house because he was so restless, and found him lying on the floor, blood pooling slowly around his head, dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

After Lovino had gotten him back into bed, heart still throbbing painfully in his chest, his legs still shaking, Antonio muttered something about having gotten up to get something. Lovino proceeded to call him a 'fucking idiot', and would have given him a good punch to the face if the Spaniard didn't already look so pathetic.

Antonio was pale, and so thin that his ribs were prominent against his skin. He was weak and shaky, and he could hardly stay awake for more than an hour. Lovino couldn't help but notice how frail he looked underneath the mountain of covers lying on top of him. The Italian couldn't wrap his head around it. Antonio was a lot of things, but 'frail' had never crossed his mind before. He had a certain look about him that made you think he would break if you handled him too roughly, almost like a very fragile piece of glass.

This couldn't be Antonio. He refused to believe that it was. That sick, skinny, pitiful person bundled up in blanket after blanket was an imposter, because Antonio would never let this happen to himself. And if it really was him, Lovino supposed, then he would get better. One day, Lovino would find himself wrapped in those surprisingly strong arms, being showered in affection as Antonio continuously repeated those two god damned words that could never make it past Lovino's lips.

_Te amo._

But Antonio didn't get better. He didn't jump out of bed, didn't go out to tend to his garden, didn't do anything except lie pitifully in bed, coughing with the occasional pained groan. And Lovino realized, with a stab to his chest, that Antonio might not make it. Antonio may never get up. Antonio may never get back to his cheerful self again.

Antonio may die.

Biting back tears stubbornly, Lovino stopped his unnecessary cleaning (everything was already sickeningly spotless, there hadn't been anyone to mess it up or track soil and tomato juice in) and went back up to check on the Spaniard yet again.

At first glance, there seemed to be nothing wrong. Lovino walked into the room, amber eyes immediately settling on Antonio, who lay still among the blankets.

"Oi, Spain, wake up." Lovino prompted, standing at the side of the bed expectantly.

Antonio didn't stir.

Lovino frowned, looking more annoyed than anything as he tried again. "Spain, wake up, you bastard."

No response.

Worry wormed its way into Lovino's brain as he leaned over, shaking Antonio's shoulder impatiently. "Spain - Antonio!"

After several failed attempts and colourful curses, Lovino's whole body was trembling. Why wouldn't Antonio move? Why wouldn't he wake up? He couldn't be dead, he was Spain, his Spain, Lovino's Spain, he couldn't die. He could've sworn he'd seen him breathing, if shallowly, so why wouldn't he just _wake the fuck up_?

"Wake up, you stupid bastard!" Lovino shouted, "Wake up! You can't…you can't fucking die! _Ti amo_!"

Lovino froze, his reaction delayed as his mind registered what he'd just said.

And then he fell onto the bed, pressing close to Antonio's warm (_warm_, not cold) body as he cried into his chest, repeating those two words over and over again, as if making up for all the times he didn't say them. "_Ti amo, ti amo, ti amo…_"

He felt a hand rest weakly on his back, and he lifted his tear-stained face to be met with tired green eyes. Antonio had apparently been awoken by Lovino's frantic shouting, and though his face was exhausted and thin, he still wore a small smile. He looked almost…relieved. And happy. It was almost enough to make Lovino cry again, but for a completely different reason. "_Ti amo tambien, Lovinito. Ti amo tambien_."

Lovino leaned up, pressing a short kiss to Antonio's lips as his Spaniard's eyes closed.

He stilled.

And Lovino cried.

_Ti amo, mio Spagna._


End file.
